"Yardo" (Fiction)
Fist-fight Madness
*This is a short story of mine from 2012; it was originally published in The MacGuffin Magazine in 2013. I don’t generally give “trigger warnings” but: I am white (gasp) and this is a story about a non-white character. I would probably never try this in our current times, but again, this was 2012/13, basically ancient Carthage in terms of writing and identity concerns. I have a firm belief that fiction is…fiction. The whole point is to imagine. This means thinking about people unlike yourself and what their lives might be like. The idea isn’t to mimic what their lives are exactly; it’s to imagine yourself into their lives in unique and intriguing ways. Anyway, it’s an oldie but goodie, in my opinion. This one is paywalled. Yearly subscriptions are now only $35; go paid, people!
Anyway. Enjoy.
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Yardo
They called him Yardo because he fought in yards—schoolyards, backyards, any kind of yard. Hispanic with slick greasy hair, he possessed energy: his eyes reflected damage. Yardo walked like an adult, a mean, tough adult. It was in the way he moved, straight, almost authoritarian. Some of the teachers even got nervous when he slid their way.
The school was called Saint Joseph’s. The kids were from blue collar homes. A Catholic Church sat across the street, its gargantuan plate glass windows towering. A subway station was around the corner. It was a K-8 and many of the upper grade students rode the subway to school.
Yardo’s father was a drunk. He had a gambling addiction and would sometimes go on three day benders, even bringing young women home. The fridge was often bare and he had resorted to stealing twenties from his father’s wallet when he was drunk.
The students, including the eighth graders, knew to steer clear of Yardo. Every now and then a confrontation would arise, it was inevitable. The thing about Yardo was that he was fearless. He had nothing to lose. It was that simple.
He woke up at six a.m. for school. Upon opening his eyes, he realized his door was wide open, which was unusual. He threw off the covers and peeked his head, looking both ways. Putting on the same clothes he’d worn the day before, he combed his hair straight back with gel. He tip-toed into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Yardo noticed an unopened beer in back of the fridge.
Yardo moved into the living room. His eyes grew upon seeing the couch. A naked woman was lazily stretched out, asleep. He gulped several times and looked closely. She was absolutely nude. He scanned every inch of her body: the stunning face, glossy lips, peaceful. Her shoulders, collarbone. Breasts – they were big, really big; he felt a desire to touch them. He saw her belly-button, narrow hips, perfect thighs, her legs, knees, tiny feet. And then, there is was. Right there. He was stunned. Couldn’t remove his gaze from it, from the slit between her thighs. There was dark hair around it, but he could really see.
Then Yardo noticed his father sprawled out on the floor. What a deadbeat. He shook his head then refocused on the woman. Suddenly he felt stronger than he had ever felt; he felt courageous, like he was more of a man than his father ever could be. Walked to the kitchen and pulled out the beer. Slugged. It tasted horrible, but the concept behind it was too great.
A little buzzed walking to the subway station, the gelled hair did not move as he did. His legs were like angry pendulums. Dark eyes dared anyone to look his way. Baggy trousers were low on his ass and a dark jacket made him appear older. His face didn’t have the normal youthful look which accompanied boys of his age. Hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jacket; he faced straight ahead.
Yardo got on the subway, grabbing a pole. It was the usual morning crowd – businessmen, professionals, tough guys, weirdoes, artists, homeless, gang-bangers – the array. Riding the subway each morning was subtle view of society. As he was scanning the crowd, he noticed an object under one of the seats. He moved his head to get a better look. Peered carefully and realized it looked like a knife. Making sure no one was watching he bent low, grabbing the thing expertly and putting it in his pocket.
Getting off the subway, he began heading to St. Joseph’s. He stopped and looked around, making sure he was alone, then yanked the thing from his pocket: it was a knife alright, just like he’d thought. It was about five inches long with a green handle and a retractable blade. It looked sharp and had a serrated edge. There was a small flip-knob on the bottom of the blade. He made sure it was folded into the cradle completely, then swung the knife outward, flipping the knob: the blade shot out: snap!
Yardo gulped and crunched his jaw. He shook his head and grinned, letting the knife sink back into his pocket. He cracked his fingers and neck. Arriving at the fence, he unlatched the hook and entered. He was on the black asphalt of the school yard. Ninety minutes until recess. The halls were empty, students were in class.
Of all the classes at St. Joseph’s, his most hated was English. He hated them all, but especially that one. What did he care about useless verbs and adjectives and nouns and periods and commas? He had a knife. That was more important than a god damn comma. The class was mostly full and he took his usual seat, the back, right corner desk. That specific desk was always left open; the kids knew he sat there.
He saw the teacher’s mouth working, opening and closing in rapid succession, words flowing forth, though he didn’t hear. He saw good little girls and boys. Girls with smooth, shiny skin, pig tails and perfect clothes; boys with toned hair and laughing, smiling mouths.
Out of nowhere one of the students, Bill Somerton, turned his head and looked at Yardo. This had never happened in the history of St. Joseph’s. Bill’s head retracted as quickly as it had turned. Two other students, Mike Swan and James Carmichael, were laughing with Bill. Yardo realized it must have been a dare. He lowered his hand to his pants and felt the knife. It was there, big and heavy like a deadly, surreal appendage.
*
When the bell rang, the kids all swept out of the classroom so fast it was as if they had never been there in the first place, as if it had been one large, shifting specter. Yardo was still in the room. The teacher began wiping the blackboard. Finally she turned around with a look of surprise. She nearly jumped. Eyes bugged and her arm went to her heart. She swallowed several times, staring at the boy.
“Um, uhh, aren’t you going to go outside, I mean, for recess, with the other kids, Mr. Rodriguez?”
Yardo ignored the reference to his last name and stared.
She swallowed again.
“…Please, Mr. Rodriguez, I need my twenty minutes alone so I can prepare for my next class. Will you please move along now?”
Yardo looked at her carefully. Tried to imagine her naked, without the dress, without the purple boots, without the fake pearl necklace. Imagined her breasts and between her thighs. He stood up without a single word and left. Mrs. Malloy watched as he exited and took a breath of relief. She exhaled loudly and shook her head. “That one’s no good,” she said to herself.
Outside, Yardo walked. He looked at the old church. In his mind, he traced the picture of the Virgin Mary. He looked at the fence surrounding the school, along the playground. Pulled up the collar of his jacket. Kids everywhere, the perfect ones. Nobody looked his way; he had no friends and no enemies.
He saw many kids he recognized but not the one he wanted. As he was rounding the building, he saw him: Bill Somerton. With his blonde hair and blue eyes, that skinny body, he was easy to spot. Yardo had a shit-eating grin. Steps became ordered. His boots clicked along asphalt. Mouth tightened into a ball. He touched his hair, felt the pulled back greasy mop.
“Hey!” Yardo yelled.
Bill turned laughing wildly, but his smile faded. He swallowed hard and became red in the face. Put his arms out, as if shielding. Looked around frantically, hoping to see a teacher or a savior. Friends were there, but they could see in Yardo’s eyes that he only wanted Bill.
Yardo took a few steps forward as a small crowd gathered, forming a wide ring. The looks on faces weren’t of jubilance, which a normal fight might have produced; they were afraid… afraid for Bill. Yardo advanced two steps. Bill’s eyes watered and his face became redder. He backed up a few paces but ran into the ring. No one would let him out; the people who did would pay a price. Those were the unspoken rules of the St. Joseph’s schoolyard, of which Yardo was the undisputed king.
Bill began to panic as he moved farther along the ring trying to pry an exit through the bodies. Suddenly Yardo appeared right behind him and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him backward into the circle. The two were close and Yardo began jumping up and down, getting heated.
“C’mon pussy, make a move,” Yardo hissed.
He spat on the ground and moved his legs and arms rapidly, cracking his neck dramatically. He threw up his hands in fight position. This was for show; he didn’t care about style when he fought, he just went for it. This was for the crowd.
Bill moved timidly forward, and they began circling. They circled for thirty seconds. Then Yardo pushed him roughly. Bill fell backward and tripped on his own foot, falling to the ground. The crowd yelled. Bill got up and approached, appearing to have gained some courage from the yelling.
Yardo threw two left jabs, missing almost purposefully, then threw a right fist. Bill grabbed his face, holding it with both hands, blood coming from his nose. He backed up and hit the ring again. Bill tried a second time to break through the kids, but to no avail. He stood by the outer ring, timid, not approaching. Yardo rushed toward him, but as he was moving, someone ran in and stood in front of Bill, blocking him. Taylor Yeats.
Taylor was an eighth grader and big. He turned, said something to Bill, and motioned for the crowd to let him pass. Holding his bloody nose, Bill walked through the human wall, the bodies moving back into position immediately.
Yardo and Taylor stared at each other. They didn’t utter a word. Taylor started circling wide, along the ring of bodies. The crowd was intent; this was a real show, the climactic moment they’d wanted. Taylor circled closer, threw a punch and Yardo dodged it, got Taylor right in the nose. Taylor backed up, looking pissed. He snarled. There was blood in his nose. Yardo smiled – two bloody noses.
Taylor came back for a second round and dodged, then hit Yardo good on the side of the head. Yardo backed off, holding his head, looking angry. They circled. Taylor kept pretending to go in, then bouncing. Yardo stood his ground, intently watching. Finally they came into each other. They clawed and held on dearly, both trying to hit the other any way he could. The crowd was immersed, yelling, the whole affair was drawing more kids, getting louder. Taylor and Yardo were panting and grunting.
Yardo was on top of Taylor, hitting him hard, his fist smacking Taylor’s pockmarked face like a battering ram. Then, somehow, with sheer strength and willpower, Taylor managed to flip Yardo. He got on top. The crowd crooned ecstatic yells of triumph. The kids were screaming. Fists were waving in the air. It was their moment of victory. Taylor used his weight, holding Yardo in place and working on his face and body. Taylor just kept punching, walloping his body, hitting his stomach, always coming back to his face.
Yardo was breathing hard and squirming with all the strength he possessed, but Taylor was too big; he couldn’t move. He tried one last time to get up. His head got knocked down violently by Taylor’s big curled fist. He let his head rest on asphalt. Yardo’s brain went on auto pilot. Hyperventilating, his breathing was irregular.
“Get off me man, seriously, I can’t breathe, get off…” Yardo pleaded.
Taylor punched and Yardo could feel his consciousness fading. He tried one last attempt at getting up or moving. Taylor’s hands were wrapped around Yardo’s neck. Yardo squirmed and used his now free arms as rams against Taylor’s stomach and legs, but he wouldn’t budge. He saw his father’s face, the image of him passed out on the floor. The naked woman lying on the couch, legs dangling.
Then, as if the awareness were just coming back to him, he remembered. The crowd was yelling, chaos. He felt for it in his pocket, pulling it up slowly. He looked hard and deep into Taylor’s eyes, trying to squeak out the words, but could hardly do it.
“Let…me….go…you…sonofa…”
Flipping it open he plunged the thing as hard as he could, straight upward, and he knew it went in deep. The crowd sounded absolutely frantic.
Taylor’s eyes rolled back until the whites showed. He released Yardo as he felt the wound on his lower side above his hip. Mouth hung slack. There was blood all over his hands and shirt; the knife was in almost to the hilt. Yardo gulped deeply. A teacher ran up, screaming hysterically. Taylor curled up in the fetal position. The teacher grabbed Yardo’s arm tightly. He could feel her sharp nails.
Mrs. Malloy was on the phone. She was yelling, shaking his arm, saying over and over again, “What have you done, what have you done, WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE!!!”
He felt a huge hand on his shoulder, pulling him. It was a cop. The man was a giant. His features were too big. He spoke to the teacher for a few seconds, then turned Yardo around and cuffed him. The cop walked him slowly through the schoolyard past the kids all staring. The kids looked terrified, obedient. A grin came to Yardo, and he noticed some of the boys seeing his expression, elbowing each other and pointing, shaking their heads.
As Yardo walked past the familiar fence of St. Joseph’s for the last time, he looked up and saw the Virgin Mary again, and gazed longingly at the old church. The police escorted him into the squad car, placed him in the back behind the metal barrier.
Yardo thought about that morning, how simply he had drunk the orange juice and beer, how easily he had watched the woman, how badly he had wanted to kick his father. He didn’t want to die or go to prison, but he had no choice now; he was in it. He realized his father might not bail him out, if he even could. For the first time in a very, very long time, he cried. He cried for all the times he hadn’t cried, and probably for all the times he would in the future.
He saw his father’s face, turned away; he knew he would never have a dad. Gypped by life. Why couldn’t he be like all the other boys and girls in class, so shiny and put together?
“Sonofabitch,” Yardo said, while the squad car moved downtown.